I recently went diving for the first time, and second.. and tenth. and then… I’ll admit, I fell in love with diving very quickly. I found this little love note in my journal from after my 5th dive:
The tides pulled me in as if to tell me why the moon floods the beach at midnight. They whispered forcefully enough that I wanted more – leaving just enough air to understand that breath isn’t what causes breathlessness.
My first time paled in comparison to my decade of underwater experience; my fear was equally as consummate as my lust. The water is a familiar embrace that leaves me no stranger to the fact that this is a door. My first stride was a deep ingress to be reconciled every inevitable subsequent plunge.
This boat only needs a brief introduction, the rocking is simply a response. Don’t tell me to slow down. My mask hides nothing as it pulls my hair and reminds my heart why I’m here. I am weighted, I am supported, I am sinking in the best way.
Rocking, responding. Thalassa rose up on the deck and grabbed me by the ankles, her sultry whisper persuaded me from 18 to 30 and then went out just as quickly as she’d come. Tease. I chased her around the island, riding the smallest of swells.
Her power surged, swelled, and disappeared, and her energy was palpable. Everyone on the island was sucked into her Bermuda triangle. Coming up for air is just an intermission. In blue there is a secret that nobody can hold on to. We touch it, and pass it up into the corporate stars and wait for it to be breathed back into our awarenesses only to realize it never left.
We can’t leave the island, nor can we bottle it into an 80 cubic foot tube. It’s here to be loved and left, wild. It’s our rope and our anchor, moored here until next time.
